


Writhe

by knifewingo



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Other, abuse cw, kin of the cosmos, oedon - Freeform, vileblood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 18:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo
Summary: Enthralled by Oedon, Silas has one purpose and one purpose alone: he will carve his God from the womb of the world no matter the cost. Here's why!





	Writhe

He doesn’t remember the time before his life was twisted by hate.

He was only a boy - green and supple and innocent, his stem unbent, when his mother sold him for a sliver of silk. To a Lord no less, rooted like vast oak in centuries of earth sewn with the bones of the hungry. He was a pretty boy - eyes of ocean, skin like snow - that had been his only failing. Used and beaten and held prisoner in a home that was never his. He dreaded every glimmer of sunlight. Ate each meal without tasting it. Clothed only in filth and his own sweat. Washed only when his master wanted him. But he was a child - he didn’t know how not to endure it. his keeper made no promises and kept even fewer.

Five years of pain, darkness and secrecy - the last golden glimmer of hope burned to embers in his heart. Those who had come before him and after - had all withered. His soul refused to extinguish itself. Gaunt, exhausted. he found a nail loose in the soft wood that lined his shuttered window. His fingers bled when he prized it free. The point barely gleamed but - he’d lived this long. He had determination. And the blackness, it called to him. Unending slumber. He’d forgotten heaven long ago but nothing, even nothing would be better than this.

He remembers the feeling of iron in his skull every time he closes his eyes. Through the soft pink of his eye. Crimson inked a ravine over his soft cheek. How it had scraped against his bone. Shattered porcelain rubbed together. Granite dragged along a guillotine’s edge. That sound had echoed around the chasm of his skull. And as he wept, shuddering, his hands soaked in scalding scarlet, he saw it.

The glimmer of a vast eye.

Wreathed in the colours of the night. Swirling and pulsing around him. Within and without. Occupying the tiniest crack in his consciousness. constricting his entire body. He almost expected it to sing - there was music, he could have sworn - but perhaps he imagined it. It watched him. unchanging. unblinking. No mouth to consume him. Even then he knew, he should have been gripped with fear;

but nothing had ever held him so gently.

He knew in that moment, as its obsidian tendrils bound his heart. as it lowered him to the ground, and slipped the metal from his eye. He had seen his future; and it was unending.

Fifteen years old - he’d behaved himself for two years. too old for his master’s tastes now, though they kept him clean shaven, his tousled hair short. He was the picture of grace and too precious not to show off. the gears of this particular hierarchy whirred, oiled and glistening in his head. He poured wine, held polite conversation - all the time, watching with hawk’s eyes, his master crumble into old age, impotence.

Silas and his son became fast friends - how could they not. Silas had watched the boy grow, knew every detail of his life - he coiled around his heart and smiled, as he watched his venom set in. He grew to distrust his father: as silas had planned. Confided in him every secret and desire of his soul. Every time he looked into the boy’s eyes - he saw the reflection of the life he knew he should have had. whether he knew or not, was hardly the point - the boy was oblivious at best, ignorant at worst. Though he was honest, wore his heart on his sleeve - not like his bastard father.

Still, Silas felt nothing when he cut his throat. dangling feet first from the tallest tree. 17 years old. Silas painted his face with his blood and swallowed the rest. It writhed in his stomach, swirling bitter rust - but he gritted his teeth through it. After all, he’d swallowed worse. The boy was clay cold when Silas cut him down, his eyes stung red. He’d watched the corpse for hours, impassive, as his blood blackened beneath the silver moon. Plastered Silas’ shirt to his lunar skin. Stood like ancient marble, until he no longer felt the cold.

Years melted into each other after that. The old man had wept when he saw Silas that night, drenched in gore. Silas’ voice hadn’t even shaken when he told him to name him as the sole heir - cool, and silken, like the garment that had bought him. Each time he filled his lungs, closed his eyes, he heard that silent music. Felt the balmy gaze of the leviathan’s eye. He was above most things - but not the twist of pleasure that came whenever the frail lord jumped at his shadow. He grew out his hair, tied it back with ebony silk. The beard he nurtured, soft as sin and raven black. He fucked and killed his way to the bluest blood, whetted his tongue with a vineyard of nobility. for the first time he was wanted - and it mattered nothing. not anymore.

When the old man died - pale, withered, covered in his own shit - Silas burned the castle and its coffers to ash. He stood in the grove he’d shed his soul, atop his white steed, and watched its inhabitants flee and scurry and scream, ants beneath a magnifying glass.

Tragedy chased him wherever he roamed, like a loyal hound. And as the dust of each settled he would kneel and stroke its terrible head. People clung to him, begged him, bargained with him for his blessing - tried to claw their way to his glass heart. But he pulled the wings off men’ ambitions and picked his teeth with their bones. He was no one - and could be anyone. The fearless leader to the broken hero. The soft soul cradling a mother’s weeping child. The broken man, desperate and weak.

There were few things he wanted he was ever denied; and nothing he wouldn’t do, to feel the touch of his god again.

**Author's Note:**

> this is, admittedly, not as good as I remember it being. But what the hell!


End file.
